COLD h o t WARM
by Melody of Words
Summary: When he lets the warm go, he hates himself- hot hate, cold hate- for letting it go and he falls all over again, somehow ending back in her embrace. Her warm embrace. Even if it's just in his head.


**_Disclaimer: My fandom is my only claim to Flight 29 Down._**

* * *

Jackson took. He never gave… at least, he didn't give now. To be fair, he never really took anything.

People just gave. To him. To make themselves feel better.

And he took it.

But he never had respect for the people who gave, because they only gave so they could brag about it.

"Oh, look! That boy looks like he's off the street! Let's invite him for dinner!"

"That boy" was always him. He was always the charity case, the boy that people "pitied." The people were always the same let's-get-close-but-not-too-close-we-have-a-reputation kind of people. As if they really pitied him. As if they really _cared_.

He never gave back. Never cared. Why bother? _They_ didn't.

He gave once, though.

Once.

And he wouldn't ever go back.

He gave to his friend, the one guy who really did care. A rich, well-to-do guy who gave and gave for real.

The guy who knew Jackson before his parents got broke and relocated to some dingy, crummy, messed up neighborhood where they hoped society wouldn't find them.

But they did. Society found them and deserted them. The friends who once flocked around Jackson- for his money, his popularity, his looks- left him. But _he_ didn't.

_He_ even joined Jackson at night so he wouldn't be alone with his new neighborhood "buddies." Jackson moved to several new schools- because of society's prejudice… and because he got kicked out- and that was when Melissa invited him to the trip.

Melissa. She gave, too, and she was part of society… but she wasn't fake. Jackson didn't mind her at all. He didn't even know why she cared. He didn't know why he ca- no, not cared; he didn't know why he _bothered_. Because Jackson _never_ cared. When she was alone, or just with him, she was more confident. Strangely enough, he wanted her to be like that all the time- so she would be tough enough to handle life, he reasoned- even suggesting that he'd call her just to see her smile. She was even sort of pretty… but he wasn't giving attention to her. Jackson never gave. Only that one time.

The one time he gave. He should never have offered himself; never have opened up; never have been so vulnerable that night, giving up his stone walls. That's the reason he's in a mess right now. If Jackson had been selfish, he wouldn't be facing the-

No. He shouldn't think about it - the future- now. The past is fine; it's safe.

He gave to his friend after his friend gave to him. His gift wasn't really much of a gift though; more of a curse. Jackson curses himself for being an idiot every day he is stranded. What was he thinking when he bragged about the stupid trip? That they'd clap him on the back? That the alpha male of the pack, Damien, would say, "Yo, that's cool, man; can you hook a brother up?" He laughs humorlessly at that. He knows exactly what happened…

* * *

They ganged up on him.

"You think you better than us? I'mma show you just how high you are!" A punch to the stomach made Jackson double over.

Cruel laughs, a few more jeers…

"You think you better than us, now? Huh? Huh?" A shove each time.

"You think you too good to talk to us? What? Now you ain't gonna speak? You answer me! D'you hear? Answer me!" A hard smack.

"You hangin' with those uptight, snobby, rich kids who don't know nothin! Nothin! You hear me?" Damien's second in command's harsh voice echoed off the streets.

"Move outta my way." A quiet voice, concealing the burning rage. The others parted out of the way, nudging each other, betting on how long Jackson would last. Jackson knew that voice. Jackson feared that voice.

_Damien_.

That was supposed to be the end.

But then his friend gave. Jackson's one and only friend stood in front of the leader.

"Look, man," _he_ reasoned. "It's not his fault he was too bad to be in our school." Damien walked up to the guy, and Jackson didn't do a thing. He just stood there and watched, hoping to God that no one would get hurt. The two were nose to nose, but Damien was taller. Damien was stronger.

"You need to stay out of this. You don't wanna get hurt, do you?" Damien asked menacingly. An audible click resounded through the silence. The click of Damien's pocket knife.

Jackson doesn't like remembering what happened next. He's not even sure if he does know, but all he remembers is a blur of images with jeers and laughs and angry yells bouncing off the street. The next thing he remembers is a flash of silver, and blood. _His_ blood. And then the street was empty except for his best friend's twitching body, and Jackson remembers being terrified. He thinks that he was the one to call the police, but he can't really remember.

He remembers lights- lots of them: police car lights, blinking red, white, and blue, and ambulance lights flashing. He remembers sounds- loud sounds; the police siren echoing, the ambulance blaring. He remembers sensations- **cold** handcuffs, **cold** wind, **cold** sweat, **cold** fear. H o t fear. H o t chills. Stiff movements. But they're nothing compared to the sights.

His motionless best friend.

A bloody knife.

Blood. Everywhere. On the road, on the walls, on his clothes, on the knife, in his head, in his heart, pouring, gushing, gurgling-

And he wants the memories to stop and disappear; fade away into eternity with all of its shadows. But they don't. They haunt him every day and every night. He can see accusing stares in the glances of every person he passes; see the visions pass before his eyes at night before he wakes up feeling h o t and **cold** all over.

He wants to roll around and scream and moan and pound them all away.

He wants to cut and cut and cut so that the blood he sees on his arms is his blood, not the blood that haunts him.

He wants to stop time; reverse, go back, try again, get a second chance. He wants so, so much.

But he'll never get it.

He'll get the dreams and the memories and the sights and the sounds and the sensations. He doesn't want them.

But he'll get them anyway.

He just wants to be normal and date (maybe Melissa… but he's _not_ giving her interest), and play football and go to college and have regular dreams instead of waking up and feeling so h o t and so **cold**. He hates it. Hates it so much. It burns him and it freezes him and he wants to die, die, _die_ because he can see and feel and touch and hear and remember and he doesn't think he deserves to. He doesn't deserve anything. _He_ did. _He_ deserves so much more, and now Jackson isn't even sure if _he'll_ ever get the chance to be normal and date (but not Melissa… and he's _not_ giving her his heart) and play football and go to college and have regular dreams and regular friends instead of sticking up for Jackson and getting stabbed.

Stabbed.

With a **cold** knife.

And h o t blood.

* * *

But, somewhere along the way, Jackson learns that there's something in the middle called _**w a r m**_. It's not perfect, but it's nice and forgiving and lets him remember but it lets him forgive himself. He discovers it while it's raining **cold, cold, cold** and he feels h o t, h o t, h o t and he's running far, far away where no one can hurt him but himself. Then again, he's always been his own worst enemy. He discovers **_w a r m_** in her embrace and a part of him suspects that he's discovering something else, but he refuses to think that far. Not in her embrace, anyway. She's sacred now. He doesn't dare say the name of his new savior. She's as special as _him_.

_Him_.

If Jackson had the power, he'd force everyone with the same name to give it up. He hates them all. H o t hate. **Cold** hate. H o t hate. **Cold** hate. H o t hate, **cold** hate, h o t fear, **cold** fear-

**_W a r m. W a r m_**th in her embrace. _**W a r m, w a r m, w a r m**._

He stops in the middle of his nightly nightmare, **cold** sweat running down his h o t skin. **_W a r m_**. He supposes he should let the h o t and the **cold** go for the **_w a r m_**th. When he lets the **_w a r m_** go, he hates himself- h o t hate, **cold** hate- for letting it go and he falls all over again, somehow ending back in her embrace. Her **_w a r m_** embrace. Even if it's just in his head.

Because if his demons are in his head, why can't he have an _angel_?

* * *

**Author's Note: I can honestly say that this is the darkest thing I've ever written. I feel like the ending was too rushed- what do you think? Let me know in a review please- I practically live for those! **


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